


Neighbors

by AtoTheBean



Series: Ato's 007 Fest Fan Creations [13]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: AU, Coffee Shops, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-30 11:45:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19852504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtoTheBean/pseuds/AtoTheBean
Summary: James Bond has the best coffee shop in the area, bar none.  A vibrant shop with a loyal clientele in a neighborhood that just keeps getting nicer. Things really couldn’t be any better.Until the laundry next door closes, and rumors are that another coffee shop is moving in next door.For 007 Fest AU Day





	Neighbors

**Author's Note:**

> Anon Prompt: coffee shop AU (obligatory)

James Bond has the best coffee shop in the area, bar none. He should do. He’s been at it for nearly six years. Through the time that be bought the barely-passes-basic-inspections shop front, though the investment of “sweat labor” to fix it up, and his “urban workouts” of hauling of bags of coffee beans from the warehouses and getting them situated to make his own blends (better than any gym membership for core strength). It was touch and go for a while, but now he has a vibrant shop with a loyal clientele in a neighborhood that just keeps getting nicer. Things really couldn’t be any better.

Until the laundry next door closes, and rumors are that _another_ coffee shop is moving in next door.

“Who?” he asks his friend and client, a local businessman who sits on the zoning committee and is supposed to _help_ with these things.

“I don’t know. I was traveling when they voted on it. Some American.”

Bloody-fucking fantastic. He’s just spent years of his life developing a small business and fucking _Starbucks_ is going to move in next door, sell shite coffee and put him out of business because they’re big enough to undercut him. He should sell now.

A week later, the crews have already started gutting the place next door and his clients are buzzing with the rumor mill.

“I don’t think it is going to be a coffee shop,” Eve, another regular, says. “I thought I heard it was going to be a tea shop.”

“What, like porcelain teacups and doilies and tiny sandwiches?” he asks, trying to imagine the sort of places his Gran liked in this youthful neighborhood.

Eve shrugs. “I can’t really see it either, but…” She shrugs again.

“And what do Americans know about making tea?”

“Hell if I know. The only tea an American ever made _me_ was oversteeped and utter shite. Far more bitter than your darkest espresso. But you know how Americans can get all anglophile. She probably fancies herslef the tenth cousin to the queen or something.”

James looks in the direction of the wall he’ll be sharing with this new throwback of an enterprise. “Well, we’ll have to insist that my shop, at least, is a doily-free zone.”

As the shop next door comes together, though, there’s not a doily in sight. No damask. No mismatched teacups or pictures of the royal family. It’s all rich woods and modern concrete and cubbies for a hundred different glass jars of tea.

And the owner, when he shows up, is not an American, nor a girl, but a lithe, hipster Londoner who went to school in New York City the last few years and desperately missed his tea. James just catches glimpses of him for a few days and is about to write him off as a _rude_ hipster when he comes over to invite James to the grand opening, a few days hence.

And James goes. He even wears a tie. And James has to admit, the shop looks nice. Somehow urban and young and traditional and old fashioned all at once. Better yet, the man who goes by Q (hipster, remember? and god knows what terrible name he’s hiding behind that initial) really _does_ know how to make a good pot of tea. AND he’s trained up his staff properly.

But the best part is, there’s no coffee on the menu. No half-arsed attempt to broaden his menu. Q does tea, and he does it well.

He’s a good neighbor. Busy in the way that James doesn’t have to be any more… proving himself to investors and trying to get people in the door. But he's polite. He takes delivery of some supplies that arrive before James has opened his shop one Saturday, bringing them over when James does finally arrive (late, because that happens sometimes with traffic) and refusing any offers of payment, saying they’re neighbors... of course Q doesn’t mind lending a hand.

“At least let me make you a coffee,” James insists. “Unless... you don’t drink it.”

Q rolls his eyes. “Yes, I drink coffee. Shhh. Don't tell anyone. But usually later, after dinner, and it’s probably not something I should take into a shop where I’m trying to sell _tea_.” Q has a bit of a glint in his eye, and James finds he likes it. He also likes the way Q's hair looks. His fingers nearly itch to touch it.

“Perhaps not. Another time, then.”

They exchange mobile phone numbers — in case anything like that ever happens again — and each goes about their business. But he finds that Q sometimes ends his day by having one cup of espresso before heading home. James tests new blends on him. And sometimes when James has had all the coffee he can stand, he’ll pop over to Q’s and ask for whatever he likes best today. And so is introduced to blends of tea he’d never heard of (“and you call yourself an Englishman!”). He even starts recommending it to his clients, in case they’re ever in the mood for tea.

And then one day when he’s in the middle of his shift, his mobile rings.

“James, how much do you charge for a flat white?”

“What?”

“A small flat white. What do you charge for it in your shop?”

“Two quid fifty,” James says.

“Four quid,” Q says to someone not him. A customer, James imagines.

“It’s not outrageous,” Q continues to this other person. “I told you, the only coffee we allow in the shop is from _Bond’s Blends_. If you want to sit at a table with your friends while they drink tea, but you want coffee, we can get it from there. And it’s the best coffee in the city. Well worth that price. If you want a Starbucks, go over there and make your friends endure shite tea while you down bitter sludge and fight for a table. It’s up to you.”

James stifles his laugh. Q can probably afford to offend this lot. His shop has been on a definite uptick of late. He just didn’t realize Q had such a mouth on him.

“That’s lovely. Twelve quid seventy-three, please.” And then more directly into the phone, “James, I’ll be over for that small flat white in a mo, with a bit of a tip for you. Ta.”

“Ta, yourself. And it’s on the house. I’ll bring it over and we can discuss this new arrangement.”

“What new arrangement?”

“Well, I’ve decided to discontinue serving my teas… they hardly ever get ordered and go stale before I can serve them. It’s a waste. And you probably call them ‘shite’ behind my back…” Q snorts at that. “From now on the only tea allowed in my shop is from _Quintessential Teas_.”

“Oh. Are you sure? That sounds… lovely.”

It does... it really does. Although… “You know, there are going to be a lot of details to work out.”

“Details?” Q is obviously distracted. James can hear the lids being removed from the glass tea canisters.

“Yes, a markup arrangement, tip sharing, I might even be willing to share the name of my baker…”

“I’m listening.”

James starts foaming the milk. “Well, I think it’s the sort of thing best discussed over dinner, don’t you?”

There’s a brief pause. “Perhaps. Away from the customers...”

“Exactly. You close at nine tonight?”

“Yes. Same as you.”

“Perhaps a late dinner then. Unless you have someone to rush home to.” James nearly holds his breath waiting for the answer.

Q snorts. “I think the cats can manage a few extra hours without me.”

And so his potential rival becomes his neighbor and then so, so much more.


End file.
